


Making the Snow Angel with Two Backs

by starhawk2005



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Het, Outdoor Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House is an ass. And Cameron’s had enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making the Snow Angel with Two Backs

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own House, Wilson, or Cameron. Damn it to Hell.  
> Beta: Many thanks to katakombs  
> Notes: House/Cameron ficathon, Assignment #3: Elements to include in story: 1. Outdoor sex, 2. Cameron/Wilson bonding, 3. 3. House catching Cameron in an awkward situation.  
> Spoilery for S2 of House, up to and including the Hunting ep.

James Wilson’s wristwatch alarm went off and he rolled over with a groan, nearly falling off the couch. His back gave a warning twinge, and he grumbled even louder, carefully pushing himself up to a sitting position and glaring fuzzily around his office.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the stubble, and thought darkly: _I have to stop doing this. No more of these fights with Julie. No more sleeping in my damn office. I either have to pull the plug on this marriage, or I have to grow up and stop giving in to temptation to cheat. One or the other._

5:00a.m. An ungodly hour, even for a doctor, but so far he’d found that if he got up early enough and picked his path to the staff locker areas carefully, only a few disinterested janitors would notice his disheveled state. He didn’t think anyone else in PPTH – not even House – realized that he was literally spending all day and night at the office, lately. And he intended to keep it that way. 

He fell automatically into a now tragically familiar routine. Get up. Grab shaving kit and clean clothes from the hiding place in his office. Go to men’s locker room. Use the facilities, wash, shave, and get dressed. Hide the evidence back in his office. Go to the Oncology Lounge and watch some boring early-morning TV while waiting for his first caffeine infusion of the day to kick in. And then finally make his way to his office, to ‘start’ his day.

This day in particular began with two meetings. One with the family of a patient with terminal brain cancer. Another with a woman with an inoperable lung tumour. His back kept _twinging_ , but he shoved that fact out of awareness, instead concentrating on passing the Kleenexes out as needed. And concentrating on being supportive and empathetic, while maintaining the necessary amount of emotional distance, as he discussed the inevitable deaths of both patients.

Paperwork. As head of the department, he might have power, but he also had more administrative headaches. And _unlike_ House, he wouldn’t have felt right letting it pile up, or leaving it to his minions to complete (not that he really had any ‘minions’, per se, mind you). Not like Cuddy would let him get away with that, anyway.

But half an hour into the stack of test results and staff evaluations and requisition forms, a welcome distraction walked through his door. Cameron, holding a file. He leaned back in his chair, favouring her with a warm smile. He was very glad to see her, all things considered.

Almost four days had passed since she’d been exposed to HIV-infected blood. Since she’d taken meth, and slept with Chase (or so the PPTH grapevine said). Jim could only imagine the fear and confusion that had led her to commit both acts. But every time since then, when he’d tried to reach out to her, House had cut him off. 

_‘You OK?’ he’d asked her._

_’She's fine, probably getting bored with the question.’_

He’d tried a few more times, but always the same result – House interrupting, changing the subject, shutting Jim down. It was irritating. Cameron had looked like death warmed over, and House had been _projecting_ like crazy. Jim knew from his own personal experience with the man that House himself detested it when people asked him about his leg, his pain, his problems. Fine, Jim could understand that. If House didn’t want support from others for himself, that was his choice. But to do his utmost to cut Cameron off from that same kind of support…what the Hell was his reasoning? To get her to ‘toughen up’?

So, Jim had resolved to try to catch her alone, to talk to her privately, without House playing overbearing chaperone. But he hadn’t gotten a chance yet, so he was grateful for this opportunity.

“Cameron. Please, come in, sit down.”

He was glad to see that she was looking a bit better. Some colour was back in her cheeks, and some life back in her eyes. She did as he asked, smiling wanly at him. “I have a patient. House suspects a tumour in the liver,” she began, holding the file out to him.

He took the file, but didn’t open it, laying it beside him on the desk blotter instead. _Let’s talk about_ you _first,_ he thought. “How are you doing, Allison?” he asked. He found himself using his best ‘soft and supportive’ tone, the one he used with dying patients. It seemed wrong, somehow, but he didn’t know what else to do. _Stick with what you know, I guess._

“I’m OK.” she said, but her eyes told a different story.

He looked at her sympathetically, trying a different tack. “He’s being a real asshole lately, isn’t he? Or rather, more so than usual?” He didn’t specify the ‘he’, but Jim knew Cameron would know to whom he was referring.

She chuckled a little, reluctantly. “I guess you would know, you’ve known him longer than I have.”

Her response encouraged him, so he kept on with that topic. “That I have,” he confirmed, chuckling himself. “At least he’s _predictable._ Consistently a jerk.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Although-“ she paused, swallowing, and looked down at her hands, resting on her lap. “I thought, just before this happened, that he…You know that day when his parents visited?”

He nodded. How could he forget? Cameron herself had come to see him, had blown Greg’s Master Plan for Parental Avoidance right out of the water. 

“At one point, he started talking to me about it.” she went on, now looking up and meeting his gaze. “Started telling me about his father. Started telling me how I was _like_ his father. Although he wasn’t being a jerk, for once. And I was actually starting to wonder if maybe I was getting somewhere, that maybe he was slowly letting me in. But then, _this_ happened.” She motioned vaguely to herself. “Sometimes, I even think he’s acting this way because he _blames_ me for it. And for…what came after.”

Wilson paused, steepling his hands under his chin, considering what to say. “I don’t think it’s because he blames you, Allison. Nothing like that. It’s just…He’s a difficult man.You know this. He has trouble discussing emotions. Even in fairly mundane, day-to-day situations. But in something like _this_ …”. He let his voice trail off suggestively.

She sat, watching him. “You think he became so cold – even for him - because he _does_ care.”

“I’m just saying that you _know_ what he’s like. You know how rude he can be. How inappropriate. And I know you made sure he’d go out on at least one date with you, and that tells me you _also_ know how to let his comments roll off you like water off a duck’s back. You never would’ve asked him out on that date, otherwise.” He leaned forward to accentuate his point. “I don’t blame you for _forgetting_ \- with all that scary crap that must’ve been happening to you, who wouldn’t? – but this is still his usual M.O. Don’t let it get to you. Just like before this happened.”

She sat there for a moment, taking in everything he’d said, obviously mulling it over. Finally, she looked back at him, smiling more warmly than he’d seen from her in days. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me. You’re strong, you’ll get through this. You’ll be putting him back in his place soon enough. But-“ He held up his hand. “-If you need anything, anything at all – to talk, to get something to treat any side-effects you might have from the antivirals, to commiserate about our favourite ‘Resident Asshole’ – I hope you’ll feel comfortable coming to me. I have an overstuffed couch and a never-ending supply of Kleenex, after all.” He waved his hand to indicate the office furniture in question.

“I will,” she said, and he saw her eyes becoming shiny with tears….but she didn’t let them fall. _Greg, you are a class-A idiot_ , Wilson thought to himself. _She’s as strong as Stacy, in her own particular way_. _She’s not going to be scarred for life from this, whether she tests positive or not._ He’d suspected all along – long before the HIV exposure - that there was a core of strength in her, one that Greg had never allowed himself to see. The fact that she was handling recent events as well as she had, just proved it. And yet, House still wasn’t recognizing that. _Idiot_ , he thought again.

“And you don’t have to worry about me talking to Gre- _House-_ about anything we discuss on that couch. Least I can do for the person who made sure that House didn’t sucker me into his ploy to avoid his folks.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

_Now, to business,_ he decided, before House came beating down the door, wondering what was taking Cameron so long. Jim turned in his seat, intending to pick up the file she’d brought.

But apparently his second coffee of the day was being a little slow to kick in, because instead of picking up the file, he only managed to swipe it off the desk with his elbow, scattering pages of test results all over the floor. _Oy vey._

He started to lean down to gather the pages up, when his back suddenly protested mightily, the earlier twinge becoming a full-blown spike of pain. “Ow! Damn!” He cursed, straightening back up and pressing one hand to his lower back.

Cameron was on her feet instantly. “Wilson? Are you OK?” Now it was her turn to be concerned. 

“Yes, I just managed to strain my back muscles recently. It’s no big deal.” He gritted his teeth, trying to bend over again to retrieve the file.

“It’s OK, let me.” she said, and immediately came over and crouched down in front of him, starting to sweep the scattered papers together.

As she lingered there, trying to reorganize the pages, it suddenly occurred to Jim that Cameron’s position on the floor was not exactly fortuitous. His legs were spread, and she was effectively kneeling on the ground practically right between them. Behind his desk. Once you added in his reputation, _anyone_ happening by could think-

“Uh, Cameron,” he started, clearing his throat.

But he didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, because the aforementioned Resident Asshole had apparently chosen that exact moment to come seeking his wayward Duckling.

*~*~*

House had been sitting in his office. He’d had his Whiteboard session with his pack of disciples (trying to ignore how drawn and pale Cameron still looked, how Chase kept trying _not_ to look at her), discussing their latest case. Parceling out the workload. Sending Cameron off to see Jimmy-boy by herself, since House knew  Wilson would just look at him as if he was the world’s biggest jerk. _‘What the Hell are you doing? Cameron needs your support!’_ Jimmy would whine. He was getting way too predictable, was the Wonder-Boy Oncologist. _Maybe it’s time to get myself some new friends,_ House thought.

What the Hell else should he have done? Cameron had been exposed to HIV, and nothing he said or did could change that. Yeah, he could’ve trailed her around, asking her every five seconds if she was OK, but he didn’t _do_ that. He wasn’t warm and fuzzy, he’d told her that much himself. She knew that. If she’d expected otherwise, well…she _hated_ him now, didn’t she? She shouldn’t have expected anything otherwise from him.

She’d even gone and slept with Chase. Oh, he knew she hadn’t been in her right mind at the time, what with the meth and all, but _still_. Not that he was jealous. What claim did he have on her, after all? And besides, he knew: _If she’d called you, you wouldn’t have gone._ Obviously, she hadn’t bothered, and had settled on Chase instead. Smart girl.

And it was better for her to find someone else to have a crush on, anyways. He was just a scarred old cripple, and the sooner she hated him and moved on, the better. He had his own problems to deal with, in any case.

He reached into a desk drawer for his GameBoy, beginning to work his way through level six of his current game. Trying to turn his brain _off_ completely, except for those functions needed to focus on the game. He’d had enough of thinking about the ‘fairer sex’ for the time being.

After he’d managed to kill himself for the second time, he realized something was wrong. Cameron should have reported back by now. He’d merely sent her to see Jimbo for a quick consult, not to run a huge battery of tests like Wombat-Boy and Dr. Mandingo were doing. 

He turned off the game and shoved it back into his desk, pondering. Did he dare go after her? Getting _two_ pairs of doe-eyes locked onto him at the same time was not to his taste. Not now.

But his curiosity soon got the better of him, so he grumbled and got to his feet, limping off to the Oncology office area.

He thumped right up to  Wilson ’s office door, not even bothering to check if Jim was with anyone first (as was House’s usual habit), and shoved it open.

As the door swung open, he heard Jimmy say Cameron’s name. House looked around, but a quick scan of the room didn’t produce her. _Huh?_

When he turned back to his friend, he saw the deer-in-the-headlights look on the other man’s face, and knew that something was up. “Where _is_ Cameron?” House asked sharply, already impatient. 

Wilson didn’t say anything, but House got his answer anyways, as Cameron popped up like a jack(jill?)-in-the-box. From behind  Wilson ’s desk. Right beside Jimbo himself. Who was facing her, legs spread. _What the_ Hell _?_

Cameron was clutching a file to her chest, and seemed embarrassed. What exactly had he been interrupting? Had she been about to _unzip_ the pants ofhis adulterous friend?

_I don’t want to know,_ he decided, gritting his teeth. Still, he couldn’t resist mocking them: “I sent you over here for a consult on the _patient,_ Dr. Cameron. Not on how soft Jimmy’s carpeting is on the knees.”

Jim obviously wanted to ride to the damsel’s rescue – _typical_. “We weren’t-“

House cut him off. “C’mon, Dr. Cameron, let’s go find ourselves an oncologist who can actually focus on something _other_ than reenacting ‘The Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky Love Story’ during business hours.” He’d come back a bit later, alone, and get the consult he needed from Jimmy. Even if he _did_ get the third degree from Wonderboy Oncologist regarding Cameron. Maybe he’d manage to get a free coffee or lunch out of him, at the very least, in return for having to put up with the other man’s nagging.

For now, though, he shot a black look at Jim, and waited while a silent and tight-lipped Cameron made her way over to where he was standing. He decided privately that he wasn’t going to send her to see Jimmy alone, ever again. Not that he believed she’d actually been doing anything _interesting_ behind Jim’s desk, but because valuable time had been wasted. _That’s the only reason_ , he insisted to himself.

Snatching the file out of her hands, House stomped his way out of Jim’s office, not bothering to check whether Cameron would follow him. He knew she would. She was predictable that way. 

*~*~*

The day had somehow managed to run itself down, and Allison had fought to keep up her poker face throughout, ignoring House’s _looks,_ and his non-looks of indifference, alike. Remembering what  Wilson had said to her that very morning. _Consistently a jerk._

_Let him be a jerk if he wants_ , she thought. _I won’t let him get to me._

She did her job. Ran tests, visited the patient, got a complete medical history. She had lunch with Foreman, then went and swallowed her afternoon dose of antivirals. She waited in the women’s locker room while the transient nausea came and went, and then bused herself running more tests. Had more meetings with House and the rest of the team, and drew the short straw to run a final lengthy test while Chase and Foreman got the chance to finally take off. Most would presume that House would leave, too, although she knew better. He’d probably be in his office a few hours yet, while late afternoon turned to evening and the hospital emptied of all but cleaning personnel and essential staff, probably knocking back whiskey and listening to his iPod.

When her results were finally in-hand, she made her slow way back to his office. A headache was kicking in, another side-effect of the antivirals (and her suppressed tension around House probably didn’t help), and she gritted her teeth when she realized he was indeed still in his office. He was predictable that way. 

_So much for just leaving this on his desk and making my escape._ _Well, if he says_ anything….she let that thought trail off, pushing open the door to his office.

A mostly-empty glass of amber-coloured liquid was on his desk, but there was no iPod in evidence, so she’d been only partly right. It was just House and his alcohol and the light from his computer screen falling on his face, illuminating every scowl line as he watched her walk in. She braced herself.

“There you are. I thought you were turning tricks in the Oncology Department again.” he said with a glare, producing his Vicodin bottle from a pocket and opening it. She watched as he tossed a pill in the air, catching it neatly in his mouth. 

She debated answering him at all. She could just wordlessly drop the file in front of him, gather her coat, and leave. That’d be the smart thing to do. The _wise_ thing to do.

Maybe it was the headache, pulsing faintly at her temples. Maybe it was the anger – despite  Wilson ’s words to her, she thought House could’ve been at least a little supportive. Or less _un_ supportive. Hell, _neutral_ would’ve been an improvement. Maybe it was the fact she’d tried everything else – being honest, being enamored, being angry – and it hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Maybe it was finally time to fight fire with fire.

“Jealous, Dr. House?” she said, trying to mirror him, to match him glare for glare and mock for mock. Except – she threw a small smirk in. Also, in a way, copied from him. Back in the days when he’d given her those kind of looks.

“Oh, should I be? First, you let Chase sleep with you. Then, you take in the _view_ from the underside of  Wilson ’s desk. You only came to me third? Well, I guess I should be happy I’m beating out Foreman. Or were you doing him just now?” His voice cold, scornful.

She didn’t rise to the bait, since that was what he’d _expect_. She kept the smirk firmly in place, and went on: “You didn’t answer my question. Still, it’s interesting, that you’re choosing to complain to me about this. As if it’s any business of yours. That just screams _jealousy_ , Dr. House.” Her temples were really starting to ache, but she ignored it, trying still to match his usual caustic tone, to ‘play’ him as closely as she could.

“If I was jealous, it would mean I _care_. And I know you want to assume that I care. But I _don’t_.” God, his voice was so cold. Just like it had been when she’d gotten that infected blood coughed all over her-

“Bullshit.” she spat at him, realizing too late that he’d won again, that he’d gotten her angry, gotten her to break. Damn, she should’ve realized there was no way to beat him at his own game. 

Her head throbbed dully as House sat back in his chair, twirling his cane and smirking at her. “That’s it, isn’t it? You still want me to care about you.” That damned superior tone in his voice.

If she stayed here with him any longer, her head was going to explode. She needed air, something to clear her mind. Without even thinking about it, she walked past House’s desk, brushing aside the vertical blinds and unlatching the glass door to the balcony, shoving the door open. 

She stepped out into the cold and darkness of the night. “What are you _doing_?” she heard him call out to her from behind the clashing blinds. Irritably, she left the door open behind her, wrapping her arms around herself against the cold. Let him get up and shut the door if he wanted to. She could always get back in through  Wilson ’s office, even if House was cruel enough to lock her out. She concentrated on breathing in the icy air, shutting her eyes and trying to relax, trying to let the muscles of her face and scalp loosen. And she didn’t bother to answer him.

“Yeah, that’s _real_ smart, Dr. Cameron.” His voice continued from the office behind her. “Going out there without a coat.”

As the pain in her head lessened – or maybe it was only the icy air swirling around her and dulling her awareness of it – she found the energy to call back to him, “I have HIV – _maybe_ – not a cold.”

For a moment, there was only silence in reply, except for the occasional sound of the vertical blinds getting clashed together by errant gusts of wind. She was shivering now, but she stubbornly refused to go back in. He’d just take it as another mini-victory in the battle they were waging.

As if he could read her mind, he yelled out next, “Stop acting like a whiny little kid, and get back in here. Or at least shut the damned door!”

Anger spiked inside her again. She wanted him to _pay_ , but a battle of words was something she no longer wanted to participate in. His weapons were more advanced than hers in that arena. 

The wind chose that moment to throw a freezing veil of blown snow across her face, and her eyes popped open as an evil idea occurred to her. One that should throw Mr. Resident Asshole for a loop. Grinning evilly to herself, she crouched, starting to form the snow underfoot into a bunch of loose snowballs. Hoping that he couldn’t see her through the shifting vertical blinds.

It only took a few moments for her to have about five relatively well-formed snowballs made. She cautiously moved back to the open door, piling the snowballs where she could get at them easily. The blinds kept swinging against each other, moving with the wind, and through the occasional gaps between them, she saw he was still sitting at his desk. But facing towards the balcony door. Good.

“What are you doing?” he called out to her again, obviously wondering why she hadn’t come (crawling) in yet.

She suppressed another shiver, ignoring how her exposed skin was starting to feel slightly numb, and snagged her first snowball. Then she used her left hand to part the verticals for a second, and pegged it at him with her right.

She had time to see it smoosh satisfyingly into the center of his black button-down shirt before she released the verticals, letting them fall back into place.

“Hey!” he yelled, sounding more startled than angry. 

She didn’t answer, just snagged a fresh ‘missile’ and threw it at him again, using the same procedure. This one got him in the shoulder, and when she let the verticals fall once again between them, his shout echoed around her.

“ _Stop_ that!” 

Good, she finally had him at a disadvantage. She grabbed another snowball. This time, she kept it hidden for a moment, shoving the blinds open and looking defiantly at her shocked and angry boss. “Make me, _asshole_.” And then she threw the third snowball at him.

This one actually got him in the _face_ , and he practically bellowed this time. She released the verticals, grabbing yet another snowball, and backed up a few paces from the door. Waiting to see what he would do. If anything.

She didn’t need to wait long at all. An instant later, House was shoving his way through the blinds himself, looking about two parts angry and one part puzzled. His face and chest and shoulder wet from her artillery barrage.

She wasn’t afraid of him. He was bigger and stronger, but she was faster and able-bodied. And armed. She hefted the snowball.

“Stop!” he barked once more. 

The next few seconds were a blur. Somehow, she found herself shoved back against the balcony’s low wall, House’s body pressed hard against hers, his fingers prying the snowball out of her hand.

She glared up at him, trying to push back against him, trying to free herself, but he was too heavy. Although this wasn’t entirely unpleasant. He was _warm_ , after all.

He caught her chin in his free hand, their gazes clashing. “Make you, huh? I _will_.” 

She didn’t get a chance to answer, because he leaned down and kissed her, hard, his tongue sliding forcefully into her mouth. Hot and probing. Searching everywhere. His large hand wrapped around her chin, warming the chilled flesh. She shuddered, no longer certain if she was cold or hot, and almost unconsciously pushed her hips into him.

He broke the kiss and pulled back for a moment, staring into her eyes. And she looked back up at him, no longer angry. Kissing her was the _last_ thing she had expected him to do. Not because of the risk – getting HIV from salivary exposure was a highly unlikely scenario – but just because this was _House_. He should be shutting and locking the door to his office, leaving her to shiver in the cold, and then limping away. Or insulting her, yelling at her. And then going and chasing after his ex. He shouldn’t be kissing her, and then looking into her eyes like _that_. He didn’t do that kind of thing, the Resident Asshole.

What happened next was a blur. She thought that he must’ve grabbed her wrist. Certainly, he must have lowered himself slowly down, using the cane. There was no other way she could’ve wound up lying on her back with a layer of snow underneath her, on the floor of the balcony outside his office, with him stretched out on his ‘good’ side next to her.

_This can’t be real. He wouldn’t_ do _this. He doesn’t like me, and I_ hate _him_. But the cold wetness seeping into the back of her blouse, the blown snow whipping across her face with icy kisses, the heat of him next to her, the ice of his eyes looking at her in the dark, taking her in…no way was she dreaming this. _He’s probably just trying to get me covered in snow, as payback for throwing those snowballs at him. No way he’d ever-_

He reached out, grabbing her further shoulder, and rolling her body up and towards him, until they were face-to-face. Still studying her intently, like he’d never really looked at her before. 

She was suddenly nervous. She didn’t know why he was looking at her like that. And she could feel herself responding already, nipples stiff inside her bra, cold between her thighs where the wind was cooling her moisture through her clothing. Unless it was the cold that was making her respond this way. Either way, if this was some twisted form of ‘punishment’ for the snowballs, she didn’t want any part of it. “What are yo-“ 

“Quiet!” he cut her off, voice a soft hiss, and yanked her against him. 

She found herself clutching his shirt in fistfuls, crinkling the fabric (not that she could make it any more wrinkly than it already was), shivering against his body. His arms wrapped around her, pressing her even more tightly against him, warming her. Even though his clothing was also wet and cold in places, and the balcony floor was uncomfortably hard under its layer of (now compacted) snow. She didn’t mind it anymore, not at all. Especially when her numb cheeks felt – barely – his stubble rubbing against them. When his lips found hers again, heated tongue going back into her, to see if he’d missed anything the first time around. She moaned, holding onto him with numb fingers, closing her eyes against another snow-laden gust of wind.

He released her with his mouth and one arm, hand sliding down her chest, brushing over cold fabric. She trembled as he undid button after button, just enough of them so that he could slide a cool hand inside her blouse, so he could work long fingers into the cup of her bra and squeeze her hard nipple. She gasped and threw her head back, feeling his eyes on her. He squeezed a few more times, rhythmically, making her squirm, her right hip digging a trench in the snow underneath them. She felt his lips on her throat, breath warming and then cooling her skin, and she couldn’t remember why she had hated him in the first place. Why she had _ever_ hated him.

He pulled his hand out of her bra and blouse, pulling the fabric closed around her chest again. And then she felt his hand sliding down her body. She couldn’t look down, couldn’t see what he was doing, with his mouth still at her throat, forcing her own head back. But she could feel the pressure of his hand through her clothing, feel it sliding down her ribs and stomach, feel it cupping her mound through her pants.

“House.” The word forced out of her, almost by reflex, on the tail end of a moan. 

“Quiet, I said.” Again, the low hissing reply, his words vibrating against her throat. He wasn’t going to let her speak, apparently. Maybe that was for the best. If she distracted him, and he stopped- no, best not to think about that. 

She closed her eyes, the better to concentrate. The better to block out the numb/tingly feeling of her ears and the tip of her nose, the wind freezing her back, the cold wet hardness underneath. Concentrating on the feel of him against her, instead, on the rush of cold air against her skin as he undid snap and zipper. Then relative warmth as his hands (though they were getting colder, now) slid across the front of her panties, searching for an entry-point.

She squirmed a little, twisting against him, trying to help him find what he was looking for. _Wanting_ him to find it. And it didn’t take him long, cold fingers pushing into her underwear, glancing across her clit. She gasped, arching against him. 

He did it again, his other arm pressing her against him, restraining her, stubble burning across her throat, cold skin and firm pressure against sensitive nerves. She moaned this time, shivering and aching all over. 

He started to slide his hand back out, and she clamped her lips tight on a protest, thinking this was his game, that he meant to whet her appetite and then stop, laughing at her frustration. But no, he was only realigning himself within the tight confines of her underwear and pants, two callused fingers now pushing into her depths, thumb going back to her clit to play on her nerve endings once again. 

She couldn’t help herself, thrusting against his hand, her head lolling on the snow underneath, sweat and water mixing and matting her hair against her face. Feeling his fingers get warmer inside her. Still gripping onto his shirt for dear life. She wasn’t sure, but she thought his lips were smiling against her throat. Enjoyment? Victory? Mockery? She didn’t know. And soon didn’t even care, feeling the pressure build slowly inside her, feeling her awareness of the outside world start to shrink down until she was only aware of his hand inside and on her, relentless and sure.

She blinked, suddenly coming back to her senses. He had stopped, his hand was no longer in her pants. _Bastard!_ she wanted to cry out. 

But there was no mockery in his face when he pulled back to look at her. Just that intent gaze, the same one she’d seen earlier. She still didn’t know what it meant. But he didn’t look like he was trying to screw with her (in a manner of speaking). Just like he was trying to decide on something. 

He must’ve made his decision, because his next words came in the form of a low-voiced order: “Take a look through the verticals, make sure no one’s going to see you. And then get to my desk and grab a condom from the drawer. Third one down.”

“You keep condoms in your drawer. In your _office_. And you accuse _me_ of having sex on the premises?” He’d shut her up twice, but this was too good an opportunity to let pass by.

“Just go get one.”

She was surprisingly stiff and sore from lying on her side on the hard snow-covered balcony. She crawled clumsily over to the balcony door, peeking carefully through the verticals. There was no one in sight, so she pushed them open, moving through in a crouch and then letting them fall back into place as quietly as possible behind her. Too aware of her unbuttoned shirt, her open fly. Her clothing and hair sticking to her, cold and wet. She found the condoms, and then got back out onto the balcony the same way, as low and quiet as possible, not letting herself linger in the warm office. Before she lost her nerve.

He was on his back, using his arm to help flex his bad leg. The snow mashed flat around where they’d been lying. He met her gaze, eyes glittering a little in the faint light, and let his leg drop. “Get over here.” 

She obeyed him, lying down beside him on her side once again. But some devilish impulse made her hold the condom out of his reach when he made a grab for it. “Condoms. Desk drawer. _Explain._ ”

He looked for a moment like he was going to try to wrestle her for it, but then thought better of it. Instead, he sighed, and explained quietly: “Yeah, I like to ‘borrow’ them from the Clinic and make water balloons out of them. Drop ‘em onto cars in the parking lot below, when I get _really_ bored. Not in the winter, mind you,” he added, “‘cause that’s just cruel. But the other three seasons are fair game.”

She shook her head and handed it to him. _Typical._ _Resident Asshole behaviour, to be sure._ And she made a mental note never to park in the lot under his office again.

He hauled her in again, pulling her back against him. Saying nothing, but staring into her face, her eyes, the whole while, his hands back on her pants. But he didn’t do anything, just said in a suddenly hoarse voice, “Take me out.”

For a moment, she had no clue what he meant. But then he shoved his crotch against her, and it became clear. Her brief foray indoors hadn’t warmed her hands up one bit, so she was clumsy as she slid her own hands down between them, down his body. Numb fingers fumbling with the fastenings, fumbling to push aside layers of clothing. But she finally had him free, holding the hot slim rod of flesh in her hands.

He hissed again, hunching into her hand. “Yikes, you’re _cold_.” He complained. And then cut off her sharp retort with another deep probing kiss. Thrusting slowly into her hands the whole time.

She wrapped freezing fingers around him, trying to warm herself by the heat of that fire, and he gasped and pushed harder against her. She pressed her head into his chest, breathing in his scent. Trying to tuck her face out of the cold wind, in the lee of his body. 

It was so strange, to be here with him like this, to know how aroused he was. The risk he was voluntarily taking. The man with ‘no personal life’, seemingly about to have sex in a semi-public place. At work. Did this _mean_ something, then?

Suddenly, he cursed, low-voiced and husky, and stopped all movements with a groan. And then he started to pull her pants down. He took hold of the waistband of her pants and panties at the same time, and pushed them down slowly, until they were at her knees. She caught her breath at the feeling of her newly-bared skin against the snow, the cold and the wet. The wind on the skin (wet for a different reason) between her legs. But then he was distracting her, shoving the condom back into her hand. “Put it on.”

The whole operation was almost painful. First, her cold hands wouldn’t let her open the package, and after a few abortive attempts, House took her hands and tucked them against his sides. Between his blazer and his shirt, letting her warm them a little, despite his reflexive wince. 

By the time her hands were working effectively again, he’d wilted a bit. Still, it didn’t take too long to excite him sufficiently again, first her watching wide-eyed as he stroked himself, and then she took over, moving her hands along the length of him. But only after she’d ripped the package open and extracted the condom first.

She put it on him, and then moved back a little, waiting to see what he’d do. Her ass and thighs were thoroughly cold, now, which was not pleasant. Although the feel of the cold wind on her wet sex was somehow arousing, even as it made her shudder.

He caught a hand behind her hips, pulling her against him. His skin cool (but warmer than hers) against her flesh. Moving down the backs of her legs, easing her upper thigh as far up and away from her other leg as her pants would allow. Angling her pelvis against him. 

And then he was inside her. Gliding. Her thighs were still relatively close together, trapped by her pants, and it was a tight fit. But it worked for her. She locked her hands in his shirt one final time, moving her hips slowly against his. Trying to keep enough presence of mind not to lean her top leg too heavily on his bad thigh. 

She closed her eyes, pressed against his warmth. He was unbelievably hot inside her, stretching her open with every forward thrust. His hands now on the backs of her hips, supporting, guiding. She could hear his raspy breathing, could see her own breaths puffing whitely around her as her pulse sped up, matching him as he picked up the pace. 

He rolled over suddenly, trapping her beneath him. Her eyes opened wide, watching his face in the dim light, as he shifted position, taking most of his weight on his hands and elbows. Her legs tangled in her pants and pinned underneath him. Cold hardness under her back once again.

But it didn’t matter. He slid into her, again and again, his pelvic bone impacting against her clit with each thrust, and it was good. _Too_ good. She was at the edge too quickly, turning her head and muffling her cry into the snow as she came, muscles twitching and a different kind of shudder wracking her frame.

And he wasn’t far from his climax, either. A few more hard thrusts into her quivering depths, and he groaned and froze above her, spending himself. Sagging down onto her.

Exhaustion and cold made them both clumsy, stumbling to their feet. House went ahead of her, checking that the coast was clear, and then disappeared into the doorway. She lingered a moment, ignoring her numb flesh, studying the unique snow angel pattern their bodies had left in the snow. Watching as snowflakes started to fall from the dark grey sky above. Wondering how long it would take for the snow coming down to obliterate all traces of what they’d done.

She pushed through the blinds, just in time to see House pulling what looked like a spare set of clothes from a bag under his desk. She closed the balcony door behind them, at last, and shivered, realizing just how wet and cold she was. _I should change, too,_ she thought.

She was about to say something along those very lines to him, but then he turned to look at her. His face blank. Expressionless. His eyes cold, again. As if nothing at all had happened between them.

Already, he was closing her out. Again. 

She felt her own face harden, and her shoulders come up. Matching his own expressionless face. “See you tomorrow.” she said curtly. _I should’ve known. Oh well, another one to stick in the ‘dumb mistakes’ column._

Then, she saw it. That _look_ in his eyes again. But he turned away, obviously trying to hide it from her. He knew he had crossed a line, had changed things, but he didn’t know how to handle it, she realized.

And neither did she, really. She’d chased after him before (“Do you like me?”, asking him out on that date), and it hadn’t worked. 

She wasn’t going to chase after him now, she decided. Not anymore. So she didn’t wait around to see what, if anything, he’d say or do next. She just strode as quickly as possible into the Diagnostic Conference room to grab her own bag, to go to the locker room and change into her own dry clothes, to dry her hair. 

She heard him call her name – _Allison!_ – behind her as she shoved the door open and started off down the hall, making her way towards the locker room. Not _good enough, Dr. House_ , she thought. Let him pursue her, for a change. He’d pursued her out onto the balcony, after all, and that had finally yielded _results_. 

If he wanted this to continue, he knew where to find her. He’d managed to find his way to her apartment before. He always did the ‘right’ thing, so let him prove it once more. And besides, making him chase her would be partial payment for all the _scars_ he’d left on her. _Poetic justice_. 


End file.
